


Your Little Half A Year

by RingThroughSpace



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:45:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RingThroughSpace/pseuds/RingThroughSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't speak," she whispers. And he doesn't.</p>
<p>(Was: Conversations Jack and Phryne Never Had)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Your Little Half a Year

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a collection of drabbles.
> 
> Apologies for my muse in advance; this has a beginning and an end, but thus far no written middle.

Two weeks later, the divorce still smarts. It had been years since he'd thought of his marriage as anything other than an obligation, but now that it is over, all he can think of is what he's lost. Of what he could have had.

If nothing else, scouting out the fair ought to have given Jack a chance to escape his thoughts. The case seems fairly straightforward - a dock worker who waded into the middle of a smuggling operation, he suspects, with Tom Hartwell, a carnival barker, at the heart of it. All he needs to do is scout out the area, talk to the barker's wife, then return for a raid later that week.

Once he arrives -- parking the car on the cliff face, then picking his way to the seaside pavilions -- he realizes his mistake. He felt fine in the scrub brush, but now every step is a reminder of how poorly he fits into the crowd. Even in the sweltering heat, he feels out of place without his suit. He'd barely thought of Rosie for months, but now he sees her everywhere, at the arm of every man he passes and at the center of every flock of children.

An hour later, he's mostly confirmed his feeling. Mrs. Hartwell alternates between flirtation and stony silence, and a single man of his age raises eyebrows when he tries to search out the rides. He's no use here. He'd been better off sending Collins -- he and Dot would have enjoyed the time off -- and staying back at the station to do paperwork. Maybe Rosie was right. Maybe he should have --

Abruptly, he realizes that he definitely knows the woman he has just passed. Not Rosie. _Phryne._

_"People are talking, Jack. You spend more time with her than me."_

He sighs. "Miss Fisher." He can't even muster frustration anymore. Just resignation. Of course she'd be here.

She brightens, or seems to. Her smile may be artificial. He can never tell with her. "Jack!" she says cheerfully. "How unexpected!"

_That,_ at least, is a lie. Like Rosie, he sees Phryne everywhere. The difference is, he usually sees her in the flesh. Jack lowers his voice. "Please don't tell me you're also here about the dock worker?"

"No," Phryne says, looking curious. She tilts her head towards a giggling girl clinging to the arm of a young mans. "Aunt P recruited me to trail Mrs. Adwell's granddaughter, Mary. She's convinced the girl's beau is trouble. He's _Oriental,_ " she says, emphasizing the last word. Her voice drops to a whisper. "I'm supposed to be discrete." She rolls her eyes, then brightens suddenly. "But an investigation is far more fun. Tell me everything."

"I was hoping to do this alone."

Phryne raises her eyebrows. "In this part of the fair?" She gestures at the crowd around her. Youths, mostly, in line for the Ferris wheel. Mothers with children. "That's no disguise. You should have sent Hugh. He and Dot would have enjoyed a night out." She pauses. "Who are you trying to talk to, anyway?"

There's no escaping it. "Mrs. Hartwell. She's over in the ice cream booth across the way, but she's yet to give me a straight answer."

Phryne's eyes brighten. "That explains it. Emma's never met a man she won't flirt with, and Tom knows it. He lives in fear of her running off with some stranger. He'd never leave you alone long enough for her to answer your questions, even if she'd give them to you."

Early on in their relationship, Jack might have asked her where she'd met Mrs. Hartwell. He knows better now.

Phryne must have seen his expression, because she smiles broadly. "Well, there's no better answer. I'll just have to accompany you." She extends her elbow. Jack takes it, awkwardly. "Lead on, Inspector."

He ought to argue with her. The best part of being with her, though, he realizes, is that when she is by his side he isn't looking for Rosie at all.

****

By the time they are done, however, the sun has nearly set and the clouds are threatening to storm.

Phryne looks up at the clouds, and then studies Jack pointedly. "You're going to have to give me a ride," she tells him. "I was going to take a cab home. I was being discrete."

Jack sighs. "It's a bit of a hike," he says, gesturing towards the cliff face. "You'll have to hurry. We need to get to the car before it starts to rain."

She shakes her head. "Really, Jack. You'd think you'd never gotten wet before."

Wet isn't the concern. The craigy outcropping he'd chosen to park on is precariously close to a cliff face. Jack has no desire to drive the road in the dark, let alone in the pouring rain.

"Humor me."

She smirks. "Oh, I will." Jack rolls his eyes.

They could see the outcropping from the circus, but the geography of the beach means the car is a good kilometer away by foot, most of that uphill. The path is less than trustworthy, and Phryne, despite Jack's urging, is increasingly slow. By the time they ascend the final incline, the drizzle has turned into a downpour, and heavy clouds have blacked out what was left of the sun.

Once they are on level ground, Jack all but runs to the car, but then turns back to squint at Phryne. Despite her pretense at nonchalance, he realizes the real reason for her speed: her shoes were clearly not meant for hiking, and she is almost limping as she reaches the path.

"Can you make it?"

"I've walked in worse."

Jack turns his attention back to the car, sliding into the seat and shutting the door behind him. The engine revs when he turns the key, but the car fails to start.

_Damn._

A minute later, the car door opens and a bedragged Phryne climbs in beside him. "Next time, try to conceal the car somewhere closer," she mutters. Then she turns to him. "Well?"

"Patience," he tells her, turning again to the dashboard. He turns the key again, with less response than before. Nothing. He sighs. The engine had given him problems before. He'd been postponing maintenance. He shouldn't have.

He squints through the windshield, trying to make out the road, the hood of the car. Anything. The darkness is overwhelming. He'd intended to arrive here long before sunset. Then he encountered Phryne.

That seems, he reflects bitterly, a suitable metaphor for all of his life these days.

For a moment, Jack listens to the pounding raindrops on the car roof, the tinny carnival music in the distance.

He finally speaks. "I think we may be here until the rain lets up."

"That may take awhile," Phryne replies. "If you'd just let me drive -"

"No," he says. "First, the car won't start. And, no." Phryne is, he will admit, a more aggressive driver than he, but in rain like this - and with a cliff below them - it would be all but suicidal. If the car would start.

Over the stuccato of raindrops, Phryne's teeth are chattering. There is far too little light for him to make out her face, but he remembers her linen pants and thin cotton shirt. Her shoes weren't the only impractical part of her outfit.

"Cold, Miss Fisher?"

He can hear her shake her head dismissively. "Only a little. The temperature's been dropping."

"Why don't you wear more practical things to an investigation?"

"Because of the ways that others react. You'd be amazed what men will tell an attractive woman. You weren't complaining, I noticed."

She's right. She usually is. He sighs. "Here," he says, taking off his suit-coat. "It's not dry, but it'll be warmer than what you're wearing right now."

She reaches out, but only to take his hand. Her fingers are clammy but soft. "Jack," she says. "There are other ways to keep warm." She plants a kiss on his wrist, then pauses. He studies her face in the dim light. Does she know how long he has wanted her? Then he makes a decision.

He pulls her forward, onto his lap, and she moves willingly. His lips automatically seek out her neck. "Jack," she gasps. She kisses him feverishly, her hands immediately seeking out the buttons of his shirt. He starts to tug at her pants, then stops and pulls away from her kiss. This is in the wrong order. They ought to talk. He ought to say -- "Phryne," he manages.

"Shh," she whispers. "Don't speak."

And he doesn't. Somewhere in the distance, he thinks he can still hear the tinny sound of the carnival in the distance. A march, keeping the elephants in line. A military march that brings men to their doom.

Years from now, he will still remember this moment. When he finally returns home late that night, he allows himself to hope -- to believe -- that things have changed.


	2. ... and day brought back my night

He is back in the office in the morning, bleery-eyed but with a clearer mind. Phyrne strides in some time after noon, a basket under her arm. Her air is casual, no different than before, but she pushes the door closed behind her.

"Slept well?" she asks, crossing over to his desk. She swings herself up and tilts her head to the side, then pulls him in for a kiss.

He has noticed her before, but this is the first time he allows himself to really look at her. He can see her crow's feet, and she has a stray hair out of place. She is the most attractive woman he has ever seen and -- out of the corner of his eye, he sees the door and freezes. Collins is right outside.

Phryne frowns and pulls back to study him. "Jack?" she asks uncertainly. She almost looks vulnerable -- and, for a moment, he lets himself hope that she cares for him.

"Not now," he explains. "I'm on duty."

The vulnerability changes immediately into defiance. "You were on duty last night," she retorts. "You didn't seem to mind then."

_Touche._ "Not so loud," he says. Then, in a quieter tone: "Last night was different." _Last night wasn't public._ "Collins isn't allowed to fraternize with Dot on duty. If I let you kiss me now, it'd be the height of hypocrisy."

She pouts, _an act,_ but she seems to accept his answer. "Tonight," she whispers, her voice heavy with promise.

"Tonight," he agrees.

She backs away almost a respectable distance, and then begins speaking in a louder tone. "So I spoke to Mrs. Bimming this morning...."


	3. nec coniugis umquam praetendi taedas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, remember how I said this was a bunch of drabbles? Here, I confess to having a beginning and an end but only a fragmented middle. I'm posting what I have, rather than praying the muse will strike. If it does eventually, I'll update accordingly.

Their schism is, in retrospect, inevitable.

He comes home one night to find her already in his flat ( _and when had he become accustomed to her breaking in?_ ), sprawled out on his couch. She has helped herself to his brandy and is flipping through one of the case files from his desk.

His bemusement changes into shock when he realizes which file she chose.

"There is such a thing as private police business, Miss Fisher," he says testily, taking the papers from her hand.

She gives him her most fetching smile. "But Jack," she says. "I haven't seen this one yet."

"Nor should you," he tells her. This particular case is a delicate one. Political cases often are. "There are cases I can't consult you about."

She looks hurt at this - surprisingly hurt - but for once he stands firm. He pauses for a moment, trying to choose his words carefully. "A politician's daughter is involved. Not as a suspect," he adds hastily, at her shocked expression. "This needs to be discrete. Police business only."

She frowns. "But I'm sure you want this solved as quickly as possible. I've been discrete before."

'Solved,' in this case, may not be the appropriate word -- the events of the night are, in his mind, not remotely in question -- but that is more detail than he could give her. "You have," he concedes. _Rarely._ "But I can't share this one with you."

"I thought you needed me."

"I do," he says. "But I don't need to consult you on all my cases." _Just the hard ones,_ he'd hoped to imply, but she seems more hurt than ever.

"Jack." She sounds crestfallen. "I thought we were partners."

"We are. But I can't share this case with you. Not unless you join the force. I shouldn't have brought it home."

"What else can't you share with me?" she asks sadly.

 _Too little._ He has never asked her what she does on the nights he doesn't see her. But he has never imagined that she would be the one to feel betrayed.

He can say none of this, so instead he puts the file aside and leans down to kiss her. She kisses him back, but she doesn't smile. When he awakens the next morning, she - always the late sleeper - has already gone.


	4. ... in some quite casual way

It takes two weeks for Phryne returns to the station, and even then, she enters with a hesitancy she has never exhibited before.

This new tension between them is palpable. He was never good at repairing these rifts, and he is no better now.

In a way, it is almost a relief when it ends.

\----

When Aeneas left Carthage, Dido cursed his name and threw herself upon a funeral pyre in grief.

When he arrives one evening in October to find her house shut up for the summer, leaving neither note nor explanation, he works.

No deities conspired to sway his heart, and her departure was not driven by piety. Their coupling was on her part mostly lust, and her spontaneous disappearance -- from the little Collins tells him -- by whimsy. ( _And anger,_ he knows, but he is unwilling to dwell on it any farther.)

When this started, he told himself he entered into it with clear eyes. He was wrong, he realizes now. He feels like a fool.

Now that he is free of distractions, the station runs more smoothly than ever. Cases are less enjoyable, but they are more straightforward ( _and wouldn't she be dismayed to learn that?_ ) now that he has no other variables to worry about.

He has more time to work now. Perhaps he should take a promotion. When he is out, ghosts of neither Rosie nor Phryne haunt the crowds.

Perhaps he has that to thank her for, at least.


	5. A beggar that is dumb may challenge double pity.

Six months later, she reappears, waltzing into the station as through she'd never been gone. Collins barely has time to shout out a warning before she saunters into his office, pulling the door half-closed behind her. She is tanned where she is not powdered, and she is wearing a hat which, as Rosie pointed out to him one Sunday over dinner, is all the rage on the Continent. (Her aunt had _demanded_ that she accompany her on a cruise, Phyrne will tell him later. Somehow this led to two months traipsing through the South American jungle, hot on the trail of a murderer. Not that she would bother with explanations today.)

Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks - _hopes_ \- he might see her face light up, but when he raises his head she is scowling. "You've been hard to find," she says accusingly, as though he had been the one to abandon her. "I went looking for you last night, but your landlady said you'd moved."

Of course he'd moved. There had been too many memories.

She takes his silence as an invitation ( _had she ever needed one?_ ) to sweep aside a stack of carefully organized papers and swing onto his desk. "I'm back," she says with a smile. "Did you miss me?"

He opens his mouth -- denial's always automatic with her -- but then reconsiders, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Nothing has changed. He still cannot give her access to his files. She will never promise him her heart. They have tried this. It failed.

Phryne edges closer, pouting a little. Her face is more creased than before, and her lipstick is slightly crooked. Behind her, he sees the half-open door. He hesitates for far too long, but eventually he choses to speak.

It would be so much easier if he hadn't.

~~~ Finis ~~~


End file.
